


I wanna be held (I'm fragile like glass)

by theclaravoyant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/F, Smut, Superhero/Reporter AU, Vigilante!Quake, a tribute to Hayley Kiyoko, quake - Freeform, sentimental smut, smut with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 08:35:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14304885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: I wanna be held, fragile like glass'Cause I've never felt nothing like thatSay you can't walk, can't talk, go on without me-A lonely hero living in the shadows saves a reporter who might just know more about her than any person alive. Yet somehow, they don't find much to talk about. (Then again, they don't need to).Skimmons. Smut with Feelings. Rated M/E.





	I wanna be held (I'm fragile like glass)

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "Jemma is the damsel in distress, and Quake saves her."  
> Also heavily inspired by Hayley Kiyoko's new album Experience, especially the song [Wanna Be Missed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xoioe7lJR4I), from which the title and quote at the beginning of this fic are taken.

There was shouting, a burning building, sirens blaring as emergency services wrapped themselves around the scene. In the shadows, a figure in black slunk away, cradling in her arms the limp, smoke-smothered figure of a young woman.

The woman was Jemma Simmons, an investigative journalist who had always made a habit of sticking her nose where the subjects of her stories didn’t often feel it belonged. It was not surprising, then, that after all this time, after so many close calls, something had blown up in her face – well, at least, it was as not surprising as any explosion could be.

The more surprising part was that the figure in black knew where she lived. Said figure was “Quake,” a local upcoming superhero with seismic powers that helped her make the leaps and bounds between rooftops, through alleys and over fences, to get Ms Simmons home safe. She was a little unsteady – exhausted, weighted down, and blocked from using her hands to target her powers by virtue of carrying the reporter – so it was with no shortage of relief that she stumbled in through the door and straight through the kitchen toward the sofa in the living room. She laid Jemma down as carefully as she dared, and was of half a mind to collapse on the carpet beside her until she saw it. 

Another surprise: apparently, Jemma Simmons knew who Quake was. At least, she knew parts of the story. All across the back of the room she’d arranged pictures, news stories, blog posts. She’d highlighted certain turns of phrase, made sketches and composite images, accessed records Quake herself hadn’t seen in years. The hero’s jaw dropped, but not out of fear. No. This was no supervillain’s lair. It was simply… overwhelming to see her life pieced together in such a way. Living it had been a bumpy ride. Having it all laid out – her most heroic deeds, statements from the people she’d helped, proudly highlighted declarations of her values – it warmed a heart that had, over this very same lifetime, become drenched in death and stained irreparably with guilt and grief and suffering. It seemed that Ms Simmons had as much, if not more, admiration for her hero as the hero had in turn acquired, over the years of this cat-and-mouse, for the scrappy, sharp-minded (and sometimes, just as sharp-tongued) reporter currently out-of-action on the sofa behind her. 

 _Daisy._ She smirked. So few people called her that these days. It’s not like everybody called her ‘Quake’ either, but there simply weren’t enough people who knew her enough to call her anything else. If she wasn’t Quake, she was “hey you,” or “that girl,” or any one of a number of aliases she had to use and throw away. Yet here, in the home and the mind of this woman – this amazing woman, with whom she’d never had a conversation, but knew must be amazing all the same… here, her name was written all over the wall. Daisy laughed and shook her head. 

“Oh, wow, I need a drink.” 

Her voice came out gravelly and uneven, which only furthered her determination to follow through. Daisy set to hunting about the apartment for a drink, and was quick to find the remaining four from a sixpack of midrange beer - and not much else - in the fridge. 

“Well. That’s familiar.” She snorted, and glanced around the empty fridge door to the back of the sofa. Belatedly, she wondered if Jemma wouldn’t want a drink, and quickly poured a glass of water and carried it over to her, just in case. It was at this that – at long last – Jemma finally spoke. 

“Are you gonna put a coaster under that?” 

Her expression, despite the smoke smudges and just a little bit of blood from some stray debris, was unsatisfied. Maybe she was just too out of it to have an expression beyond scowling, but Daisy somehow thought that if she were less out of it, she’d be scowling anyway – and probably much more effectively than this. Still, Daisy felt herself unusually compelled into action.

“Uh, yeah, sure, I can –“ She cleared her throat, located the coasters in the middle of the coffee table, just a few inches away, and slipped one under the glass. “Coaster. There. Are you okay?” 

Jemma nodded, cringing at the ringing in her ears as she eased herself into a slightly less horizontal position. Daisy took the glass off the coaster and offered it to her, and Jemma narrowed her eyes. At first Daisy thought this must be because she was now sitting on the coffee table, without – of course – a coaster of her own, but no: Jemma had much bigger fish to fry. 

“It’s you, isn’t it?” she asked, peering at Daisy’s face. Daisy blinked like a deer in headlights. There were very few photos of her up on that wall, and most of them not clearly discernable, but she was sure in that moment that Jemma had seen right through her. Right to her. She didn’t want to lie, but she wasn’t sure what she was going to do if Jemma asked her to confirm it was true. It didn’t feel true, and even if it did… 

But Daisy’s fears were quenched when Jemma asked- 

“Quake?”

Not a name, but a moniker. As it turned out, she felt a little disappointed, but she didn’t get time to investigate that feeling as Jemma followed with question upon question. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Did you bring me? Or- or did you follow me – I’m not sure how I got home…” She tried to sit up, grimacing in agony as she twisted her body in search of her phone, the locked door, something. Some sign, some way of piecing the story together. Daisy waved her back down. 

“I brought you,” she explained. “You haven’t been out long, it’s okay. You should be fine, it’s just a little smoke inhalation.” 

“How did you know?” Jemma asked. “Where I live?” 

“I-“ The words stuck in Daisy’s throat, which was odd, considering the stalker-wall of her own life that Jemma had constructed just a few feet away. “I’ve been watching you. I know you’ve been watching me. I learnt some things about you.” 

Jemma blinked. Daisy baulked. 

“Oh! No. Don’t worry, I’m not going to blackmail you into silence or anything. I just meant- I like your work. You put yourself on the line, not a lot of people do that these days. Not enough people value the truth. I like that you do.”

 _I also like your face, and your blouses, and that silver necklace you have with the flower._ Daisy swallowed that part down. She might be a stalker, but she wasn’t a predator. 

Although. Jemma, if Daisy’s intel was correct, did also play for her team. 

Not that it mattered of course, she reminded herself, because it would be absolutely inappropriate to hit on the smoke-inhalation victim who’s house she’d just broken into. Unless…  
  
But no. Surely not. Forget it. 

Jemma nodded slowly. “I can respect that.” 

Wow, it really had been too long. Daisy, stumbling over her complete failure at human interaction, rushed to explain: “I just thought maybe, in case I needed something, or if I thought you might be under threat, it would be a good idea to find out some things about you. That’s all.” 

“Okay. I get it. I understand.” Jemma cleared her throat, and coughed. She tucked a few wisps of hair behind her ears, both at once, and as her fingers brushed her cheeks she realised; of course, Quake had come to do the dutiful thing. To make sure that she was okay after a dangerous encounter. She was nothing special. Those biceps her eyes kept trailing to had probably carried dozens of incapacitated victims home, and surely not all of them had been as moony as she was. 

(And if they were, Jemma thought, did Quake moon back over the women? That side of the hero’s life, Jemma had found, was even more private than the rest). 

She nodded at Daisy’s drink instead. “You found my beer?” 

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. I’ve had a bit of a day.” Daisy shook her head; there was too much in it to even attempt to unpack the whole thing. Jemma shrugged. 

“S’okay. Guess you can have one, since you saved my life or what have you.”

“Oh, come on, that’s worth dinner at least.” Daisy laughed and her eyes sparkled, and perhaps it was the smoke inhalation or some kind of concussion but all of a sudden Jemma didn’t care about all those other people who may or may not have swooned for Quake. She didn’t care who else might make her laugh like that, nose crinkling adorably. She didn’t care about the proximity or the pristine surface of the coffee table, or the dust on her skin, or much of anything really. She lunged for the third surprise – a kiss. 

Daisy moved instinctively, holding the beer out of the way behind her and catching the projectile that was Jemma with the other arm. It wasn’t until warm lips pressed hers that she felt her breath catch in her throat. Slower now, she slid the beer bottle back onto the table to free up her other hand to better lean into the kiss. She found herself savouring it, desperate for the closeness of Jemma’s body in a way that she had, apparently, forgotten she could feel. Even when Jemma lost her balance and had to slide to the floor between Daisy’s knees, she felt a whimper of protest bubble up in her throat. 

Jemma laughed, blushing furiously and looking everywhere but at Daisy as she fixed her hair obsessively and tried to get the guts to stand up on her shaky legs. “Sorry, it’s- must be the smoke, I’m- I mean, it’s not every day that _you-“_

Daisy shook her head, over and over and over until it shook of its own accord. How could Jemma be backtracking, how could she be apologising for this when it had set such a fire burning in Daisy’s heart? How could she stop this before Jemma got up and ran away and the first human contact she’d had in months was ripped out from underneath her? A deep and powerful loneliness – one that Daisy had tamed into a vague ache; one that she had all but stopped noticing for so long before now - suddenly roared into all-consuming life and she wanted nothing more than to soothe it again with Jemma’s kiss. Or maybe feed it. Either one. It had been a long time since she’d felt anything this strongly at all. 

So she dropped to her knees as well, and it hurt her bruised and exhausted body in the best way: she had a desire, and she was chasing it. And the little breathy moan Jemma let out when Daisy kissed her again didn’t help. Half-hearted protestations died on her lips and her trembling hands reached out fervently for Daisy’s strong and steady shoulders. The space was tiny, and their limbs were already tangling together, so it was only natural that when Daisy reciprocated, pulling Jemma flush against her with an arm around her waist, the two of them all but climbed each other until, like waves on the beach, they crashed apart. 

Jemma’s back hit the carpet square-on, knocking the wind out of her. For a moment, there was nothing in her world but the breathlessness searing her lungs, and then there was a flush of very different heat in a very different place, as Daisy made light work of her pantyhose – already destroyed beyond recognition by her adventurous day, it was easy for Daisy to rip them away like they were nothing, and shove the heavy pencil skirt up and out of the way. Jemma groaned and rolled under her hands, so dizzyingly eager for her touch that part of her wasn’t even sure this was real. Was she about to wake up at the bottom of a burning building, and find that all this was just her body stimulating endorphin to stem the pain? Was she in a hospital bed, high on some magnificent hallucinogen? Or was she making up less of this than she’d thought, and Quake was really here, only, their first meeting was about to be a lot more awkward than even she’d imagined it? 

None of the above, as it turned out, because Quake was real and here and touching her, and asking in what was far too mixed a tone – coy and desirous, hesitant and hungry – for Jemma to have imagined it: “I want to try something.” 

Jemma nodded, and felt the slightest tremor run through her. It faded quickly, nothing more than a shiver, and Daisy tried again. This time it was a little stronger, and not unpleasant, but more sustained. It took a moment of getting used to, but like sitting on the right place on a bus seat or the trusty old dishwasher, it was a tingle Jemma felt like sinking down on. Then, just as she was about to let her eyes fall closed for a moment, to savour it, Daisy began once again to move. That woke her up: it was electricity, it was fireworks. It was like the best masturbation Jemma had ever had and then some. She’d never had a partner use a vibrator on her, but even that – she felt in this moment – could not come close. Gently around in circles, Daisy moved, ensuring that she set every single nerve alight before moving slowly, confidently ever deeper between Jemma’s legs and- and- and- 

Daisy smiled as Jemma came undone around her. So often, she used her strength and her powers for violence – that was, after all, what she had trained them for – and recently it seemed even her very touch had become corrupted. So it loosened something in her heart, to watch herself bring pleasure: a joy, as Jemma’s cheeks flushed and her hands scrabbled meaninglessly in the carpet, but also, a pride. A hunger. Letting all of these things roll together, Daisy leaned over Jemma and, with her free hand, began plucking open the buttons of her shirt. One by one, she watched until Jemma’s shirt fell open and her back arched, beautifully exposing her soft, pale skin and the lace of her bra and the delicate, silver necklace Daisy had so fallen in love with from afar. 

She just had to lean in and kiss it, and then the collarbone beneath it, and from there it wasn’t long before she made her way back to Jemma’s lips, easing her down from the edge of bliss. Their bodies moved against each other in near-silent awe, all but lost in the unfathomable intimacy of the moment they’d stumbled across together. Post-orgasm Jemma was a much sloppier kisser than the original, but Daisy quite liked the vulnerability of it all. For all the value of her hero work to the world, she hadn’t felt so urgently, personally, shamelessly needed in a long time. It soothed the roaring dragon in her chest to the purr of a particularly proud lion. The passion was sated, but the loneliness… 

The loneliness was like a still pool: quiet, for now, but not entirely serene. It still felt like waiting; like there was something lurking beneath the surface, and as Daisy watched Jemma settle into bliss and exhaustion and blink drowsily up at her from the carpet, she began to realise what it was. 

“No,” Daisy whispered, and shook her head. There were words on Jemma’s lips and she didn’t want to hear them. Her heart beat faster, and faster, and the heat on her skin and the smell of Jemma’s perfume was no longer enough to distract her. All she could hear was the ticking of the clock. All she could see was the smoky smudges on Jemma’s skin, and the dark windows outside, and the beer bottle they’d knocked to the floor. Real life. Real, dangerous life. The life where she’d made the decision to be alone, for very good reasons. 

It was so terribly far from the life in this tiny little space, between Jemma’s couch and her coffee table. The life where she was loved, where she was safe, where she brought pleasure instead of just pain.

But-

“I- I have to go,” she stammered. 

“No. Stay.” Jemma reached a hand out blindly, and it caught on Daisy’s half-open collar. All of a sudden Daisy felt anchored. Wanted. Embraced by the life she had been beginning to think she might never dream of having again. Could it be? 

“Daisy. Stay.”

… 

Maybe just a little longer.


End file.
